A Dance With Demons
by raventwist
Summary: Somewhere deep in Hellfire Peninsula, a surviving band of Draenei prepare for a last stand against the Chaos Horde. The lives of many innocent refugees hinge upon the outcome of the battle.
1. I

Distant howling of war horns and wisps of black smoke heralded their coming long before they came into sight. A great host of orcs, though still merely a black mass, sent shivers down her spine no matter how many times she faced her enemies. Merelys clutched the hilt of her greatsword, reciting her prayers to cast away the slightest shade of doubt.

Before Merelys stood her many brothers, as solemn and still as statues carved of sturdy crystal, about fifty abreast in each line, long pikes reaching past their shoulders. On each side they were flanked by the canyon atop of which their archers and arcanists lied in wait, ready to rain stones, arrows, and magic upon their foes. It was an obvious ruse but the orcs were notorious for their recklessness. They were counting on that for it was their only hope.

The humid air had never felt as stifling and yet Merelys found ineffable solace in the calm before the coming storm. They were coming. The acrid scent of smoke reached them. She could feel the dry land shake from the trampling of countless feet. At the very front of the inevitable assault a pack of worg riders circled, raising the morale of their grunts with promises of imminent bloodshed.

'Archers!' shouted one of the Rangari captains. She could almost hear the taut strings of many longbows being drawn. 'Steady! Steady!' the same captain kept his archers in line albeit the first few worg riders were in range of their mighty bows. It was a feeble hope yet still the Draenei thought to lure more orcs into the canyon before they set their arrows and magic loose upon them. That way the savages might not even suspect they will be showered in death before it is too late. And so they waited, shrugging off the few flaming arrows sent their way. The shield wall was as solid and impregnable as the canyon itself.

Yet none of it was truly meant to wound the Draenei. The many fires, the trampling of feet, the howling of worgs, a blood-curdling warcry joined of a thousand voices. All of it was meant to demoralize the Draenei. Many villages had bent their knee and surrendered, begging mercy but they were all put to the torch. Merelys and the kin she stood among were no defenceless villagers, however. They were veterans, many of whom had faced demons, and she counted herself among those few who stood against foes thrice her size and lived to tell the tale.

The gloating worg riders finally came to form something akin to a line and rode abreast, charging to storm the lines of their foe who showed no signs of being shaken by their display of vulgar power. Merelys was afraid though, as hard as it was to admit, even to herself, and she was certain so were many of her brothers. No doubt the worgs could smell it, the way they lolled their tongues and bared their teeth in glee. 'Loose!' and suddenly the distant growls of the words were mixed with yelps as a barrage of arrows and fiery blasts carpeted the orcs and sent them to their early graves with beasts that carried them. Many charged still, arrows stuck in their sides, flesh and fur burnt both. By the time the first wave of orcs crashed into the first line of defenders they were too feeble to do anything but break against the shields and spears. The Draenei stood, unmoved, save for a spear or two that was used to finish off both worg and orc. The second wave was none the wiser, ignoring the constant pelt of spells and arrows. Some riders survived long enough to raise their terrible swords only to have a spear thrust through their armpit or neck. Some tried to retaliate by firing arrows at the Rangari above but to no effect.

Many orcs fell that day before a single draenei was even struck. For all their incredible endurance and individual prowess the orcs sorely lacked discipline to match the Draenei. For too long had they been spoiled by countless villages they pillaged. Yet despite their dying shrieks Merelys wished a far more painful end upon them all because falling in battle was too mercy for murderers and cravens. More so knowing that such death was revered in orcish culture. And so she honed her animosity like a sharp blade while waiting for her turn in line, ready to strike heads from shoulders at every twist and turn.

As strong as the Draenei were, they could not stand the assault forever. Merelys felt a thorn driven into her very heart as she saw it – a muscular orc, still atop his worg only because two spears got stuck in him, raised his own and with one mighty thrust slew one of her brothers by piercing his helmet through the visor. Finally swords were drawn and the orcs had it their way despite their losses. Yet for every orc that fell two more rose, so thirsty for blood that they would trample their own wounded just to get a taste. And a taste they got, though it was their own blood that they choked upon as the Draenei allowed their wounded to retreat in an orderly fashion to be replaced by fresher troops, keeping the orcs from pouring in.

When it was finally her turn she was more than ready. With one blow she snapped a spear, with another she sliced a hand, and with the third she hacked into a thick neck. Everything was but a blur of swords, axes, and shifting figures. The clangour of metal clashing against metal was deafening but her warrior's instinct kept her from harm even in the thick of battle. From the corner of her eye she spied her dear betrothed, dealing devastating blows with his giant hammer left and right while no crude weapon made by orc could pierce his armour no matter how strong the hand that wielded it.

By the time Merelys sobered during a brief moment of respite her armour was caked with blood as much as her sword. Everywhere she looked at least two or three orcs pressuring a single draenei. Their lines were finally broken and the countless orcish corpses were joined by some of her kin. What frightened her the most was the left flank, however, as she noticed the constant pelting of arrows had ceased from that side.

At once, she turned and ran, cutting and slashing at any orc that dared stand in her path. She was told to hold the line at any cost but there were no more lines to hold. Her instinct to protect her own overpowered her. 'Merelys!' she heard somebody shout after her though she couldn't be sure whether it was her betrothed or somebody else.

As she ascended the winding path carved into stone her fears were given a face as two roaring orcs came into view. They charged at her from above, one after the other. The first raised his crude axe, exposing his naked torso fully to her. With ease, she hastened her pace and ducked under his arm, cutting his belly open and letting him tumble down the path she came from. He left a trail of blood, tangled in his own entrails, and was shortly joined by his brother who was missing one arm.

A few struggling rangers remained, holding their own against an encroaching circle of green fiends. More draenei than orcs lay dead upon the ground. They must have been ambushed but Merelys, in her fury, had no time for such musings. She crashed right into the first orc in her path and hacked into his flesh to the very bone. The next one was just as unlucky. And yet she found herself surrounded and for all her strength and conviction even a fierce fighter like Merelys could not face so many a foe. Her blood screamed and her body hurt as she knew her brothers were dying while the jaws of this deathtrap were snapping shut, painfully slowly. The beasts surrounding her revelled in her dismay, their fat lips dripping with saliva, their hungry eyes drinking into her as if she were but a bloody piece of meat. Would she raise her greatsword to strike one a dozen others would thrust their spears right through her back and belly. In truth she did not even need to raise her sword for that. What were they waiting for? _Light preserve me. Is this really it?_

The orcs spread suddenly to give way to their leader. Merelys could not believe she did not notice him before as he towered above the orcs. The ominous rattling of the chain he dragged gave his persona away before his height, his lean stature or his piercing yellow eyes. It was The Viper, she knew, for the horrendous chainwhip he carried claimed countless lives. Such a weapon would do little against an armoured opponent's but his was said to be deadly enough to pierce even through the thickest of breastplates, hungry to drink into the hearts of the righteous and the valiant. In battle, the thing would seem to have a life of its own, and strike as fast as a snake, hence the title. But that were only stories Merelys heard. It was time she met the Eredar face to face, bereft of solidly built muscle like his brothers, but the lean and hungry look that could rival a worg was enough to send a chill down her spine even in her fury. The orcs spread, forming a larger and looser circle, perhaps leaving large enough gaps for Merelys to slip through if she was fast enough but just as the thought crossed her mind her breastplate was nicked twice by the heavy sting of the chainwhip. The draenei had only time to gasp while her opponent grinned at her, exposing his fangs, taunting her wordlessly as if he could read her every thought. The two humiliating nicks she missed were almost playful, and that infuriated her all the more when she thought she couldn't have possibly been any angrier.

With nothing to lose, she charged right at him, shrieking most unladylike. The demon stood, allowing her to come into a close range wherein his whip would do little good but his other hand was quick to raise a bastard sword to meet her greatsword. The casualness and the ease with which he did it stung the draenei worse than any insult. She had no time for games, and so she let the arrogant demon know just how well she was trained. She slashed at him relentlessly, trying to be as unpredictable as possible. She feigned, she twirled, trying to make her opponent lunge at her and expose himself. It was of no use, Merelys discovered, as all she did was force him to back away but a step or two. All the strength she packed into her blows using both of her hands was matched by one. Once the demon nicked at her left shoulderguard, then the other. At last she exposed herself enough for him to deliver a humiliating kick right into her midriff and she was sent tumbling, her body numb and aching. With a groan, she scrambled back onto her hooves. It felt like an eternity, yet the orcs stood still, sneering at her, and her demonic rival waited graciously, brandishing his black blade. It drank the very light and where it didn't it shined dark red as if his whole sword was covered in a layer of slick blood. Perhaps it drank that too. She grit her teeth and engaged the demon once more in another deadly waltz.

Fighting orcs was easy. For all their strength they were not hard to read, especially with their large and cumbersome weapons. But the opponent she now faced was nearly unreadable, and he moved faster than anybody she had ever known. At once she felt like a little girl and old memories, unbidden, flashed before her very eyes. She was little Lys once more, huffing and puffing to prove to the master at arms that she was worth something. That she could fight despite being a girl. She felt the humiliating spanks and nicks of her trainer's wooden sword as well as the older boys, and even some other girls. Countless bruises and a few broken fingers were the price she paid for her skill. 'Learn to read your enemy,' her master kept telling her until she was sick of hearing it because it was her who was always being predictable, like a tiny plaything. Once she understood what he meant, however, she became eternally grateful to him.

That was thousands of years ago. She would have never thought she would feel this way again after slaying many foes. Too many to count. Yet here she stood, toyed with, and humiliated even worse than ever before. This was no master at arms. Her pride was the first thing he would take from her but he would take so much more. Her friends. Her family. Her honour. Her maidenhood. Everything that she stood for was at stake and she could do nothing about it. Her blows became sluggish and more predictable as time went by and the demon's taunting nicks rained upon her until she bent her knee, albeit unwillingly. The Viper kicked her once more, making her realise just how much she taxed her body. No longer would it listen to her. She was spent, her battle fought. 'No...' Lys whispered, breathless, her voice rasp as her fingers stretched for her sword but he kicked it away and one of the orcs picked it up, claiming it as his own. The black steel of The Viper's sword touched her throat. It felt icy, even after all that clashing, and almost sticky as if it were trying to leech her blood through her very skin, stealing her warmth. She found the strength to remove her helmet to look straight into the murderous eyes of her would-be killer, her long hair matted over half her face. She wanted to die like a warrior, to the sword of the one that bested her in combat. That was all she asked with that look of hers, hoping that the Eredar had a shred of honour left in him to grant her that much. He took his time gazing her without uttering a word however as if he were devouring her. Some time ago that would have disquieted her but she was past caring.

A shrill shriek of an orc broke the silence and the sword that kissed her throat was lifted. A band of Vindicators had ascended the canyon, albeit only to avenge their fallen brethren as it was too late to save them. The sudden charge was led by none other than Exarch Atrogar who made the demon step away from his betrothed. She wanted to rise and help him but her body no longer obeyed. _Light preserve us. Light give him strength._ Lys prayed in her thoughts. Everything around her receded into a distant blur as she watched intently how her beloved pressed the attack with his great hammer, giving the demon no chance to return and torment her with his fiendish sneer. But for all his superior fighting prowess his style was deliberate and slower than hers which did him no good. Alike a slithering serpent, The Viper eluded Atrogar's hammer with ease. To Lys' relief, however, his blade did nothing against the blessed armour of the Exarch either. So they clashed, light against darkness, and as much as Atrogar's brawn might have forced the demon into a corner, so did the demon slip past and behind him with ease, leaving only enough time for the Exarch to turn around before another flurry of blows rained down upon him. Though without result, they still battled ceaselessly, trying to find a chink in the other's armour, although in case of the Eredar it was merely figurative for he wore but a loincloth and some leather straps. Whenever she thought her beloved was about to strike the demon the animal slipped by just in the nick of time.

 _Would they go on until either succumbs to tiredness?_ She thought to herself, feeling her strength returning. Yet as she rose to sit she was snatched by a pair of strong hands, and a dagger was put against her throat once more. The stench of an orc's mouth made her wince. The men Atrogar led were defeated, albeit they left only a few foes standing. It was enough to finally make her weep in despair, and it was Atrogar's hands she wished for, not that of a greenskin she held nothing but contempt for.

Atrogar led the demon against a rock, hoping to limit his opponent's movement and have him fall to the mighty hammer. Yet again the demon slipped but this time he did not retaliate with another useless nick. The Exarch grunted as he heard a thunderous 'THWACK' and it sent his world into a tumble. The Viper had struck him with the hard pommel of his sword against the temple and although the Vindicator's helmet protected him from most harm the blunt strike was just as wounding as a deep cut in the flesh. Atrogar fought valiantly still but the demon found opportunities to whack him across his helmet again and again. 'No!' he heard Lys shout as she noticed him stagger forward like a drunk. The fight was over and he lost without a single drop of blood shed. The Exarch's knees buckled and he was knocked off his hooves with a humiliating kick across his chest. The demon loomed above him like the shadow of death, the claws of his toes scraping against the enamelled breastplate.

'Finish it, scum!' the Exarch spat at the demon in his gruff voice.

'Oh, I shall, once I decide what I would find more pleasing… to have her in front of you, or have you in front of her…' the demon retaliated in a teasing tone laced with venom. The yellow eyes flashed at Merelys who shuddered, knowing very well The Viper could make any of his threats come true. A war horn boomed in the distance. 'A pity, we are running out of time.' Unceremoniously, the demon yanked the hammer from the Vindicator's grasp, 'Bring her closer…' the orc was commanded and Lys was put on her knees beside her beloved. She could see his breastplate rising and heard his laboured breaths. She shook her head, tears streaming from her eyes.

'No… please no.' but the demon only smirked as he stepped on Atrogar's wrist and raised the hammer, bringing it down onto the Vindicator's gauntleted hand. That very instant the man's fingers were crushed in a sickly unison of bone and metal bending under the sheer weight and force of the blunt weapon. The Vindicator did not deign to make a sound to please his tormentor but Lys cried loud enough for the both of them, still pleading with her gleaming sapphire eyes but there was no mercy to be had. _No. No._ she thought to herself while she sobbed too hard to form words. Atrogar's armour was near-invincible against blades but large hammers could dent it. Especially his own. Both of his hands were crushed, and moments later his knees followed, leaving him a cripple in terrible pain. Still, he kept silent, giving the demon no relish in his anguish. Lys' stomach churned. Each devastating blow felt as if she were stabbed by a blade that was then twisted inside of her over and over. Atrogar turned his head, the hue of his icy blue eyes weak as he tried to comfort her while his arms, legs, and hipbones were decimated. The demon grunted in dismay as the Vindicator held his own to the very end. 'Let us leave a hole where the heart should be,' the demon winked at Lys. The last blow shattered Atrogar's sternum and then they fled, as fleeting as shadows, leaving the sobbing girl and her betrothed to their final moments. The war horn boomed again, further away.

Her brothers in arms found her later, still cradling the head of her dearest as if she were merely rocking him to sleep after a long day of hard work. She no longer sobbed, and her tears dried, leaving muddy strips along her cheeks. A friendly hand was laid on her shoulder, 'Come, Lys. It is over…' a gentle voice urged her, and that was the last she remembered of that day. 


	2. II

'Faster…' Adrog, the many-scarred chieftain scolded his men through clenched teeth. His pack had been lagging behind the rest since the morning, and the unforgiving heat of Hellfire did them no favours. The sky was a magnificent blur of red and violet, just like the blood of the fallen. The cool breeze of the eve would have been a welcome companion but they scarcely had any water left and the night promised to bring an unpleasant chill.

There were about two hundred of them though there were more when they set out on their journey after a brief shut-eye. The wounded were allowed to mount the few worgs that were left but those that passed out during the day because of the heat were left behind as an offering to the vultures.

The chief steered his mount around and trotted along the lines of his worn grunts, generously motivating them with lashes of his whip, 'Move it, scum! Pick up the pace! Only cravens die in the desert!' His men grunted, some growled, others nearly stumbled. Another fell off his worg, succumbing to a festering wound and his brothers fought for his water skin that was likely more filled with spit than anything else.

By the time Adrog reclaimed his position at the front he realised they had lost sight of the other pack, 'You worthless peons!' shouted the chieftain, itching to leash each and every one of them again, even though their green backs were already ridden with countless red stripes.

'Perhaps we should thin the flock of the weak, Chief.' The deep guttural voice of Gorlug was heard as he caught up with Adrog. Gorlug was a tall and muscular orc with a shaved head and a powerful jaw, the very paradigm of what a grunt should have looked like, large and intimidating. Gorlug was said to have been among the best warriors decades past. He travelled from clan to clan, challenging their best warriors to Mak'Gora, and claiming their wives over their dead bodies. Until Ultrikk Hoarfrost put him in his place and left him with only an ear and a single eye. As a final insult, Ultrikk also left Gorlug alive, which was not too uncommon for a Frostwolf.

Adrog regarded his bigger brother-in-arms with a hint of a scowl. If there was anybody who could challenge his rule among this sorry lot then it was Gorlug. The giant grunt might have lost his honour once but he was quickly regaining every bit of it judging by the amount of skulls that hung down his black worg and his waist. Noticeably more than Adrog and the united Horde was all about how many skulls and teeth one had to show for one's deeds.  
The chief turned to another wolf rider, 'Keep this pace up,' and beckoned Gorlug along.

The further back they moved the more pitiful was the sight. The grunts that marched at the front of the lines were exhausted but healthy enough to keep moving, the ones in the middle were struggling to keep up, the ones at the very back were barely shuffling their feet, remaining further and further behind.

The chieftain and his companion approached a peon, as limp as a corpse and buzzing with flies like one, dragged behind a worg he pre-emptively tied himself to. Adrog cut the rope and the man awoke with a barely audible groan.

The chief got off his mount and kicked him in the ribs, 'Can you walk?' he demanded.

'Water…' came a raspy, barely audible answer, 'water…' Adrog nodded to Gorlug. The large grunt stepped on the small of the thirsty orc's back and split his skull with his double-headed axe. There was the sound of a dull thud and just a hint of a gasp. None looked upon the two to judge. Adrog could have sworn he spotted a silhouette somewhere in the distance from where they came though. He shrugged it off as a ghostly mirage, a product of a mind eroding from the heat and the thirst.

Next, came the turn of a middle-aged woman. Her weary eyes did not even acknowledge the two until Adrog kicked her in the shin and made her collapse onto her knees. She was cut deep across one of her muscular shoulders and the festering wound wouldn't heal. So they put her out of her misery as well. She did not put up a fight and made even less sound than the one before her. Perhaps she had lost her appetite for life just as she had lost her sons in battle but none would ever truly know.

After that they waited a while, ready to offer an orc's mercy to the unworthy, as Adrog brusquely put it. It did not take long for more men and women to fall behind, and so the chieftain had Gorlug's blood-caked axe fulfil the role of the reaper, leaving a bloody feast for the denizens of the desert. Perhaps many preferred a clean death by a brother's axe over a slow and agonizing one at the mercy of the predators, the scorching heat of day, or the deadly chill of the night.

'You there, bring me a report from the rear scout!' yelled the chieftain at a mounted orc who showed disquiet witnessing the butcher's work. 'At once, chief!'

Meanwhile Gorlug wiped his axe clean of blood against the loincloth of an elderly orc. 'Think we're done here…' Adrog mused, regarding the trail of corpses they left behind, about three bodies per mile. His companion looked almost disappointed.

When they were about to take the helm of their ragtag legion another man fell with a heavy thud. 'Get up!' a grunt nearly as large as Gorlug yelled, shaking the fallen orc violently. No sooner did the grunt rise to kick his brother did the chief and his executioner approach. 'Now, soldier! Stand up, now!' the large orc kept yelling at the top of his lungs, his concern for his comrade becoming more apparent.

A heavy gauntlet fell upon his heaving shoulders, 'He's not going anywhere, brother. Better taste the edge of my axe than be torn by the vultures. Piece by piece…' The grunt knocked Gorlug's hand off, spinning around, 'He deserves a better death. Away with you!' he bristled, and Gorlug gripped the handle of his axe tighter.

'Would you defy your chieftain? You'd die a traitor with your brother.' Adrog said, his voice icy. He glanced at the one on the ground. The man's breathing was shallow, possibly due to the spear wound that was concealed earlier. It bled again.

Adrog turned his gaze, piercing as ice, to the grunt that blocked Gorlug's way. 'No, chief… I.. promised our Mother to bring him home,' the large grunt sounded apologetic for his earlier outburst, 'Let me carry him on my back.' Gorlug scoffed at the gesture and prepared to take a swing at the unconscious orc. He was shoved away violently, and before anybody knew it two axes were clashing together. Among them none could match Gorlug's strength but the grunt's rage gave him enough momentum to push his opponent back as they made battle, grunting and growling at each-other like savages.

One misstep and Gorlug was on the ground, the long handle of his weapon barely saving him from a blade slicing through his forehead. Clang. Clang. Clang. The axe kept battering Gorlug's defences from above. A faint whisper blew past Gorlug and the grunt before him howled in pain, dropping onto his knee with a feathered shaft sticking out of his mighty shoulder.

'Not bad for a simple soldier. Heh.' Adrog remarked, a long orcish bow in one hand. Casually, he knocked another arrow and let it fly at the grunt just as he gathered enough strength to rise. Barbed steel pierced right through the thigh muscle, forcing another shriek out of the orc, and he fell on his knee once more.

'Pity we'll have to put you both down like dogs.' the scarred chieftain murmured, and allowed the grunt to watch in horror as his brother was murdered in cold blood. Gorlug's axe was as quick and lethal as a guillotine, lopping the wounded orc's head off while his bigger brother roared. Dark blood poured as if Gorlug had chopped a barrel of wine in half, and Adrog savoured the moment, grinning at the sight. The blood curse, the heat, and the loss of battle made him exceptionally vicious.

His glee was passing, however, as sudden pain bit right into his leg and he found himself howling at the top of his lungs. A small hatchet stuck out of him. Adrog's bloodshot eyes found the orc he used as a pincushion earlier, seething with sudden rage as crippled as he was. Yet he couldn't' reach the quiver strapped to the worg anymore, 'Finish that son of a bitch!' yelled Adrog, unsure of why his personal executioner approached him instead, while the remaining brother passed out.

'What are you doing, you lackwit?' Adrog bristled. 'Becoming chief.' Gorlug replied, bringing his axe down upon his former friend, almost indolently. Adrog jerked from reflex, and the axe swished past his head, hacking deep into his shoulder instead. He wanted to gasp for air yet found himself choking on his own blood, gurgling incomprehensible curses at the traitor. Gorlug's figure turned into a blurry silhouette, and the lilac skies turned red. All Adrog could think of was the terrible pain unlike anything he had felt before. He wished Gorlug would finish him off and yet he was left to drown in his own pool of blood, helpless.


	3. III

For some time the only companion she knew was the dark. It comforted her as much as it chilled her in its embrace. Every bit of her longed for the warmth of day but her fear guarded her tiny hand from reaching for the hatchway. So she waited with baited breath, broken by an occasional sob, terror still gripping her heart in a vice. In her mind she could still hear the heavy footsteps above her as the weight of them made the floor creak terribly. She felt fortunate they muffled her sobs and squeaks at the time as she sat huddled in a corner behind some old baskets of the tiny cellar. Then there was silence, and it was the most deafening of all.

Eventually her body began to hurt from the heartache and she succumbed to slumber. In her dreams she saw the hatchway lifted to reveal a beam of light from whence her mother stepped in to lift her, comfort her, and take her away from this place. Then she opened her eyes. The fleeting moment of warmth left her the moment she woke to the darkness of her dwelling, sobering her. So she waited longer but none came for her, neither friend nor foe. Soon she had forgotten how many times she fell asleep or for how long the cold kept her from such.

Eventually the line between dream and reality became blurred as the dark began to play tricks on her mind. She saw shadows moving, and glimpses of unsightly acts she had witnessed before. She saw things creeping towards her, forcing her to huddle herself against the wall even harder but there was no refuge from all the little creatures that crawled betwixt the many cracks of the walls that provided her with a shred of safety before. But now she felt things crawl all over her little body and she tried to scream yet her throat was horribly parched so no sound came, only more pain as something crept into her mouth, across her lips and tongue with its many tiny feet.

She woke, coughing terribly. It was another nightmare. She could no longer bear staying in her prison so she rushed towards the hatchway, climbing onto an old stool. The hatchet creaked with rust and old wood but barely budged. Panic sent her insides into a violent whirl, her tiny hooves becoming unsteady. She mewled in despair and tried again and again. Her short arms were weak from malnourishment but she had to get out because the darkness of her cell became insufferable. Her eyes began to hurt as she cried, barely a tear left to shed as she felt the darkness closing in on her, taunting her, ready to drag her back into that corner at any moment. She banged the wood with her tiny fists, catching a blister or two between her knuckles. It was all to no avail. She gathered her last bits of strength and pressed both of her palms hard against the wooden hatch. It opened wide, and in an instant she was bathed in moonlight, a fresh breeze brushing her as gently as a mother's caress.

But she cared little for it as she scrambled out of the cellar in haste, wanting to get away from it as far as possible. She managed to get as far as a bare column that once served as a beam for the very house under which she hid. What once was a quaint little village now lid in shambles with no other soul in sight. She froze against the stony column, her eyes still riveted to the hole in the floor she just emerged from as if fearing something might crawl after her. But nothing came. The little girl wished for a warm bed and a blanket to tuck herself under but thirst and the cold lifted her onto her tiny hooves. She looked around, hugging herself. Among the debris , in the dark, she spotted remains but whether those were burned corpses, books, or wooden structures she dared not think. Neither did she dare to think of what happened to the few other children.

She felt ill once more so she shuffled out of the village without knowing where she was going. Children of her age were often warned of the dangers of the marsh, and all the creatures that lurked beneath the murky waters. By the time she realised where she was she had already reached the creek somewhere betwixt the brooding trees of the marsh. Though the shadows they cast were nearly impenetrable the silvery stream gleamed alike a beam of light, guiding her upstream from whence the villagers used to gather fresh water. The stream of light came to an end just as her palms touched rough stone in the dark, and she fell to her knees, ripping her dress as she drank from the stream greedily. First she quenched her thirst, then she numbed the ache in her belly until she could drink no more. With barely any strength left in her, she sought for a warmer place under one of the nearby trees. After the cellar the marshes did not seem all that scary anymore. Despite that no matter where she put her hoof or where she placed her hand she felt moisture. With no choice left she settled for a thick bed of moss under a twisted root.

No dreams came to her that cold night but she could barely sleep. By the coming of dawn she felt nearly just as worn out, stiff, and her throat burned and so did her eyes. Part of her felt like staying, falling asleep, and dreaming of her mother and uncle coming after her, taking her someplace safe, tucking her into bed, treating her with some warm milk, honey and soothing words. But soon the comfort of such thoughts turned into despair. And how would they find her if she was told to stay in that little cellar? As much as she hated it, she had to head back.

Drinking water could no longer quell the ache in her belly but at the very least it offered refreshment. The little draenei stumbled back towards the village in her torn dress, feeling she might slip at any moment. Her knapsack was still in that cellar, she thought. There were still some dried rations left, perhaps enough for a bite or two. She never thought hunger could sting so painfully, albeit all other concern was stripped from her mind by it for the time being. Until she witnessed the desolation of her village the orcs left in their wake.

The light warmed but it also exposed the cold harsh truth she did not wish to see. The shock left her breathless until a fit of violent coughs racked her little body, just as she felt a lump build up in her throat. Faint and sick, Eireni found herself on her knees. For a moment she was even thankful she hadn't had any breakfast. Once she gathered herself once more she tried not to look between the crevices of the debris, dreading to see a charred corpse or a limp hand of another child just like her, an image carved hard into her memories during that terrifying night the village fell under siege.

The little bits of bread and a string of salted talbuk meat felt like a feast to her, and the cellar no longer seemed as suffocating when exposed to the morning rays of the sun. In fact, she felt a certain comfort here for it was dry. The old cellar remained her only refuge and so she closed the hatchway, and fell asleep once more.

The coming few days were filled with grave uncertainty and many dreams, both good and bad alike. They came easier to her while her waking hours waned due to her growing sickness. She dared look for others among the ruins, and on the outskirts of the singing marsh. She prayed at the ruins of the temple as was the custom of her people until she felt too weak to even reach the temple. The only thing to ruin her delirious sleep then were her coughs. She managed to find some half-burned rags to keep her warmer at night. But there was no water, no food, and no strength left to even visit the creak by the village. Eireni did all she could to take care of herself, and now her fate was in the hands of the Naaru to whom she dedicated her prayer, praying for the souls of the fallen, and for her mother's safe return. She did so in silence for her sickness had robbed her of her voice entirely. In fact she had not spoken a word since that dreaded night her uncle left her in the cellar and told her they were playing hide and seek. She was young but old enough to understand what was truly going on even if she simply nodded to her dear uncle Kevan before he disappeared, leaving her alone in the dark.

In her feverish delirium she lost trace of time as she could no longer leave her refuge. In her dreams she saw her mother calling for her, looking for her, crying for her, but Eireni had no voice to answer, not while awake, not while dreaming. Every time she watched her mother leave in despair as she could not find her precious daughter and it woke Eireni every time to the acute pain of her condition. Until one time she made out the sound of footsteps across the floor above her through the veil of her dream. She froze as the first thought that occurred to her were of the orcs.

'Eireni?' a voice called for her.

'Eireni?' the voice was heard once more. It sounded vaguely familiar to the rasp of the village elder who used to tell stories of Argus to her and other children.

At once, she wanted to cry for help but she could not find her voice. She could only hiss but it wasn't loud enough . Her name was called again, and again but it sounded more distant. So did the footsteps. Despair clutched at Eireni as if not wanting to let her go. All of her nightmares began to manifest in the dark, the very things that made her flee the cellar for the first time. _No. No. Please. Don't leave me._ she thought, struggling for breath to cry but her throat was too parched and sore. In her panic, she inhaled sharply through her mouth and it caused her to break into a fit of dry coughs. The stranger calling her name must have heard her. It was Eireni's only hope to ever see mother again.

The hatchway came undone, and cold light bathed the little cellar. It must have been a cloudy day but bright enough to sear Eireni's bloodshot eyes. She did not avert them, however, wanting to see her savior. But to her horror he looked nothing alike she would have hoped.

The cloaked creature that descended into the underground chamber was hunched and stocky as if her nightmares were given form once more. Underneath the ragged hood she spied a long face bereft of a nose, and lips. The tendrils that protruded under the wide chin made the creature vaguely resemble a draenei . 'Eireni? It's me, uncle Kevaan. I'm sorry…' the creature muttered in a raspy, almost watery voice as it leaned onto a thick stick. In truth the Broken was just as terrified when he saw the little girl but for different reasons. Every visible spot of her skin was caked in dirt. Her lips looked terribly chapped as if she had been chewing on them ceaselessly, her eyes were swollen, and her limbs were nearly stick-thin. Still, she backed away against the wall, terrified of this thing that claimed to be her uncle.

'Look at me, Eireni. Look at me... I won't hurt you.' the uncle murmured, somehow compelling the sobbing girl to look him in the eye despite his unsightly visage. It was only then that she recognised something familiar in the depths of those blue orbs. They bore a resemblance that could only mean kinship, and in an instant, she hopped onto her tiny hooves, forgetting all her fears, so she could hug her uncle. It had been long since she felt such warmth when she was embraced.

'Carry me home. Please.' she pleaded in a soft whisper, her strength fading once more. 


End file.
